


Converge

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 14:09:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: A series of seemingly unrelated events bring McCree and Hanzo closer together over time, whether they be fate, coincidence, or sheer, dumb hope.





	1. Sharing a Bed

**Author's Note:**

> I took part in the Peapod McHanzo Week over on Tumblr--one fic every day, following the prompts listed in the chapter titles. :D One prompt every day for a week, and I chose to make all the prompts consecutive. Each chapter CAN be a stand-alone if you so choose to read that way, but will reference and lead into each other.

**9:37 PM**

 

“It does not bother me,” Hanzo says. He, like McCree, is staring down the single, tiny, somewhat beaten-up bed in the corner of their awful motel room. The sheets look clean and mostly soft, at the least, but McCree’s spent enough nights in motels like this to know when a bed is passable and when it’s just covered up by some nice linens. This is the latter.

McCree shrugs his shoulders. “Me neither,” he says, lying boldly. Don’t get him wrong, this would hardly be the first time he’s shared a bed with someone he worked with--hell, he had to with  _ Genji _ on more than one occasion, back in their Blackwatch days. You had to fit in tight spaces with people you worked with sometimes, and this was no exception. 

The problem was that McCree hadn’t spent four months quietly and desperately pining after any of his coworkers before, working himself up to the point where if he shared a bed with them and made any sort of physical contact, he might actually burst into flames from sheer repressed want. He had, however, done that with Hanzo as of late.

He doesn’t say any of that, because that would be insanity. And there is nothing else in this god-forsaken motel to sleep on that isn’t the floor, and the kind of pain that’ll leave him in isn’t worth it, so he’ll just have to suck it up and be an adult about the whole thing. 

McCree kicks off his boots, sheds his gear, drops his serape atop the pile, and flops onto the side of the bed closest to the wall. Hanzo is more organized, carefully folding his coat and placing it atop his bag before setting his boots beside them, then carefully tucking himself into the other side of the bed. It’s not a small bed, but it’s certainly no queen either, and the curve of Hanzo’s back brushes against McCree’s as he settles.

There’s a faint blue glow from somewhere behind McCree. Hanzo likes to browse the internet on his phone before he sleeps. McCree stares at the wall.

 

**10:05 PM**

McCree hears a soft swear behind him. The blue glow abruptly shuts off, and there is a faint clatter as Hanzo sets his phone on the bedside table. Stayed up later than he meant, McCree guesses.

“Told you it ain’t good for you to do that,” McCree says mildly.

“Shut up.”

Well, it’s not like it’s any healthier to stay awake because all you can think about is the warmth of your friend’s body beside yours.

 

**10:56 PM**

Hanzo fell asleep some forty-five minutes ago. He sleeps lightly, but is as silent as the dead; McCree had been briefly concerned that Hanzo had simply stopped breathing until he glanced over his shoulder to confirm that yes, Hanzo is in fact still alive.

McCree glares at the wall, though it is not the wall’s fault he cannot sleep. He’s always had a talent for sleeping anywhere, as long as he felt safe enough--and who wouldn’t feel safe next to a highly trained ex-assassin?--and even the novelty of Hanzo next to him has worn off some. There are no nightmares--yet--and nothing that needs doing until morning, so he does not understand why this is so difficult.

Nightmares. Shit. If he has one while he’s lying in bed next to Hanzo, he’ll never live it down. 

 

**10:57 PM**

Oh _god_ what if he has a dream about Hanzo.

 

**10:59 PM**

McCree doesn’t completely manage to convince himself that he won’t dream about something mortifying--one way or the other--but his body is exhausted, and his eyes burn, and if he doesn’t get some sleep soon he might actually kill someone. He’ll just have to hope his brain doesn’t betray him any more tonight than it usually does, and deal with the consequences in the morning if it does. 

His shoulder aches fiercely from holding his weight for the last hour and some. He’s resisted turning over to his other side because that would mean facing Hanzo, but he’s at his wit’s end now. Besides, Hanzo’s asleep, so it can’t possibly be that awkward now. 

McCree very carefully shifts to his other side, stifling a groan of relief as it takes the weight off his aching shoulder, and resettles. Hanzo does not wake, but he does make a tiny noise and attempt to burrow deeper into his pillow. 

McCree means to close his eyes and try to sleep again, but he finds his gaze riveted to Hanzo instead. A sliver of light from a lamp outside creeps through the curtains, just enough to highlight and soften the sharp angles of Hanzo’s face. His hair is a mess, a spray of dark locks on the white linens with a few wayward strands in his face. He has the blanket pulled up so tight over his face and shoulders that McCree can’t even see anything below the tip of his nose. 

McCree’s fingers twitch with the urge to smooth Hanzo’s hair from his face.

He grips a fistful of blanket and closes his eyes instead.

 

**12:38 AM**

McCree must doze off at some point, because time passes too quickly for him to have been awake for the last hour and some minutes, but it scarcely feels like sleep. Something warm is pressing into his chest. He doesn’t think much of it at first, hoping that he can catch the tail end of his sleep before it escapes him entirely.

Then he realizes, and he opens his eyes. 

Hanzo shifted closer at some point, and now he is snugly fit into the curve of McCree’s body, his forehead resting gently against McCree’s chest. He’s not actively cuddling McCree or anything, his arms folded against himself, but he’s definitely right up against him. Must have rolled over in his sleep, instinctively seeking out warmth while unaware of its source. McCree could kiss the top of his head, if he wanted to. He can definitely catch the faint scent of Hanzo’s apple shampoo, faded from the day but nonetheless noticeable just because of how close they are.

McCree should move. 

But he might wake up Hanzo if he tries to move now, and something about that thought distresses him more than it should. 

He awkwardly tucks his arm between their bodies-- _ not _ embracing Hanzo, tempting as that may be--and goes back to sleep.

 

**2:22 AM**

McCree wakes up again, though it is a bleary, half-asleep sort of wakefulness. Hanzo is completely pressed into him now, down to having his head tucked under McCree’s chin, and McCree’s somehow gotten his hand on Hanzo’s ribs. They’re both at fault by this point. 

He really will wake Hanzo up if he moves this time. 

He ignores the ache in his chest as he drifts off again.

 

**3:07 AM**

Holy shit, he has never had to pee so badly in his entire life. 

McCree finally has to get up this time, his bladder’s demands finally overriding the comfort of the bed and the joy of having Hanzo almost-but-not-really in his arms. Hanzo groans in quiet protest and his eyes flutter open as McCree extricates himself. McCree does not acknowledge him and scoots off the end of the bed.

When he returns from the bathroom, Hanzo is back on his side of the bed, close enough to the edge to make one worry he’s going to fall off in the night. McCree awkwardly climbs back into his side of the bed, hugs close to the wall, and pretends he doesn’t notice the expanse of empty mattress behind him.

 

**5:41 AM**

Hanzo’s basically spooning him now. His chest is pressed against McCree’s back, and his breath ruffles the hair at the nape of McCree’s neck, and though his arm isn’t quite wrapped around McCree’s middle, it does rest rather comfortably along his flank.

McCree doesn’t have the energy to feel guilty this time and falls back asleep pretending that he’s allowed to have this.

 

**6:29 AM**

When McCree wakes this time, there is sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains, and the room is lit in a warm orange glow. He feels like shit. 

McCree made his way onto his back at some point, and now Hanzo’s curled up at his side, not quite tucked under his arm but with a hand resting on McCree’s chest. McCree turns his head to look at Hanzo, who still slumbers on, apparently completely unburdened by the night. He probably only woke up once, compared to McCree’s half-dozen or so. Lucky bastard.

Hanzo’s hair is even more of a mess than before, less “artistic disarray” and more simple bedhead. His lips are parted slightly, and his breath comes slow and deep. There is also a small dark mark on the pillow where he drooled a bit, which would probably offend his dignity if he were aware. That should be off-putting, but all McCree can think of is leaning in just a few inches, brushing Hanzo’s hair from his face, and stealing a sleepy kiss. His stomach aches with the desire. 

He is more than aware that this is the closest he will ever be to what he really wants. 

A loud, musical trill sounds from the table: Hanzo’s 6:30 AM alarm. McCree screws his eyes shut and pretends to still be asleep as Hanzo grumbles beside him. 

He feels the bed dip and shift as Hanzo props himself up onto an elbow. The hand on McCree’s chest lifts away, and the warmth of his touch rapidly dissipates. He turns over to grab his phone and shut off the alarm, and there is a clatter as the phone is dropped back onto the table unceremoniously. 

Instead of getting out of bed like McCree expects, however, Hanzo pauses. He seems to hesitate for a long moment, though McCree cannot guess why. Hanzo is not the kind of person to lay in bed when there is something to be done, and their pick-up is in less than two hours. 

McCree feels the delicate touch of fingertips to his shoulder. He starts to hold his breath, then reminds himself he’s supposed to be asleep and lets it out as slow as he can manage. The touch lingers for a second, then another, five featherlight yet burning points of contact. 

Then Hanzo’s hand grips his shoulder and shakes once. “McCree,” Hanzo says quietly. “Wake up. We need to leave.”

Heart sinking, though he did not think it could get lower, McCree affects an annoyed groan and opens one eye. Hanzo sits above him, propped up on one arm, and he laughs a little. “I know,” he says. “But we have places to be, and I imagine you will want to eat before we are back on the shuttle.”

“Yeah, yeah,” McCree mutters, pushing himself upright. Despite the sleep he did get, exhaustion still clings to his body like a heavy drape. If he manages to get through the shower without drowning, he’ll be surprised. 

Hanzo laughs again and gets to his feet, taking his warmth with him. McCree watches blearily as Hanzo gathers his things and disappears into the en suite bathroom, unaware of the awful night he inadvertently caused McCree. 

McCree looks at the empty bed beside him. He considers trying to get another ten minutes of sleep while Hanzo is in the shower, but knows there’s no point. He’ll try to get a nap on the shuttle, he supposes. Hanzo probably won’t so much as sit next to him on the flight back. 

He rubs the phantom ache under his sternum as he plants his feet on the floor. On with the day, then. 


	2. AU (Bartending)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not strictly an AU, but go with me here.

McCree moves around behind the bar like he was born to be there. He grabs a stack of shot glasses and lines them up in a row in one fluid movement, then follows with an upturned bottle of whiskey, pouring the perfect amount into each glass without spilling a drop. He gathers the glasses between both hands, lines them up in front of the eager customers at the bar, and turns away to grab another half-dozen items: a shaker and a pint glass and a couple of bottles, at least, though his hand flashes out to grab something else that is harder to track. He smiles the entire time, making conversation with a young couple who are apparently new to the area and wondering what this bar has to offer. 

“Well, I don’t think you can go wrong with anything here,” he says with a wink. “But I can make you a pretty damn good old-fashioned.”

Hanzo watches them from his perch at the very end of the bar, tucked near the back. He is supposed to be paying attention to the rest of the bar from here, where he can observe the rest of the room without drawing much attention to himself. 

He finds he would rather watch McCree instead.

He’s not the only one, either--Hanzo has caught a few interested gazes lingering on McCree throughout the night, and though at first he had worried that those watching were possible Talon agents or otherwise violent parties, it became quickly apparent that it was nothing more than innocent interest. He cannot blame them, although each person he catches eying McCree tightens the knot of cold jealousy in his gut. 

He is slightly startled as a short glass filled with ice and a clear liquid thunks down on the bar in front of him. He looks up into McCree’s smiling face and despite everything, his heart gives a little flutter in his chest. 

“Bartender’s probably not supposed to ask if he can buy ya a drink,” McCree says with a grin, “but I don’t suppose you’ll take one anyway.”

Hanzo snorts, but he does take a sip of the offered drink. It’s something light and clear, with barely enough alcohol to even taste. It was intentional, of course, since getting drunk in the middle of a mission was not recommended, but somehow it remains disappointing. 

“Terrible,” he remarks. “I would be surprised if there were actual liquor in this.”

McCree rolls his eyes, still smiling. “Well, we’ll hold off on the gettin’ drunk part until we’re done.” He casts a glance over his shoulder and, once satisfied, that nobody needs his attention right then, crosses the arms on the bar and leans in close. He cleaned up for this mission: beard trimmed, hair pulled back into a charmingly messy ponytail, his regular outfit swapped out for a deep crimson dress shirt with the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up his forearms. No wonder everyone is staring. 

“Seen anything yet?” McCree asks, his voice pitched low.

“Not yet. I am not sure our targets will be here tonight.”

McCree makes a displeased noise. “Maybe. It’s gettin’ awful late. Well, keep an eye out, I guess. This place closes up in forty-five minutes or so, so it’s not much longer. We’ll clean up here and decide what to do next.”

Hanzo nods and takes another sip of his drink. It has the approximate strength of watered-down beer, but it’s just enough--whether by actual tipsiness or simple placebo--to take the edge off his nerves. He is not nervous about the mission itself, but to be on another mission with McCree after that disgustingly sentimental display Hanzo put on last week . . .

He grimaces into his glass and downs what remains of his drinks in two swallows. “I am going to take a look around the area,” he says. “I will meet you when the bar closes.”

McCree looks mildly concerned, but he nods, and his attention is immediately drawn by another tipsy patient hailing him. Hanzo gets to his feet, zips his coat, and strikes out across the crowded bar and into the late night. 

Outside, the night air is cool and crisp, and the vibrant sights and sounds of the bar fade away to the comforting silence of the city. It is a little after 1AM now, and other than the bar, there is little activity anywhere nearby. Hanzo lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Out here, he has no distraction from his thoughts, but at least he is alone, without the oppressive crowds on every side or McCree coming by every twenty minutes to disrupt him. 

Hanzo makes a check of the perimeter around the bar, then around the block. The streets are empty, though, and without a distraction his mind quickly drifts back to thoughts of McCree. 

He should not have accepted this mission with McCree. Not after that disastrous night last week, when he had woken up all but spread across McCree like butter smeared across toast in the shape of an actual human disaster. McCree, at least, was acting as though nothing happened, and perhaps to him it was nothing all, but Hanzo could not stop thinking of it. It seemed that he could not handle so much as lying unconscious beside the object of his affection. And now they were alone again, barely a week later, and Hanzo finds himself so charmed by a haircut and a smile and so viciously jealous of inconsequential strangers that he can hardly think straight.

Stupid. 

Hanzo walks until his time is almost up, until it is nearly 2AM. The bar will close soon, so he makes his way back. He slows his pace as he approaches the bar, giving himself time to collect himself and take a few deep, cleansing breaths. 

He is an adult, and McCree is his friend. He will not ruin this. After this mission, perhaps he can request to take missions elsewhere, put some distance between himself and McCree until he feels more capable of handling himself. In the meantime, however, he must control himself.

When he enters the bar again, this time utilizing the back door in the alley, it is completely empty. A variety of glasses and pieces of trash are scattered about on every surface and not a single chair is where it should be. He heaves a sigh. McCree--and by extension, Hanzo as well--is responsible for cleaning most of this. 

“Yeah,” McCree says, stepping out from the back room and behind the bar, “that’s about how I feel. You find anything?”

“No."

“Neither did I. Guess we’ll see what comes up tomorrow.” 

Hanzo expects McCree to step out into the main room to start cleaning up, but instead, he fetches a bottle and two short glasses. Hanzo watches as McCree drops a sugar cube into each glass, dashes bitters and a splash of soda over the top, and crushes the mix in the glass with a spoon. Two shots of whiskey follow, then each glass gets a quick stir with the spoon, a couple ice cubes dropped in the top, and a delicately curled orange rind on the edge. When he’s done, McCree sets one glass down in front of Hanzo with a flourish. 

“That is stealing,” Hanzo remarks mildly. 

“Oh, ain’t no one gonna notice a few missin’ shots. Besides, I feel like we could both use a real drink.”

Hanzo finds no argument. He picks up his drink and takes a sip, and is startled by how good it is: sweet without being overbearing, the whiskey present but gently muted by the sugar and bitters. 

“Where did you learn to tend bar?” he asks. “You are very good at it for someone who has never been a bartender.”

“I like to think I’m good at it for someone who  _ has _ been a bartender, too.” Hanzo rolls his eyes, and McCree chuckles over his own glass as he leans across the bar. “Nah. I’ve just gone undercover like this a few times, so it’s a useful skill. Besides, there’s nothin’ wrong with knowing how to make a few good whiskey drinks, and I’ve always been quick with my hands.”

“I see. Well, in any case, I can say that this is a significant improvement over what you gave me earlier.”

“Only the best for you.” 

Hanzo ignores the flutter he feels in his stomach. 

McCree takes a long sip of his drink, looking thoughtful. “Did kinda want to bartend when I was younger,” he says. “Always thought it might be a good fallback, if other things didn’t work out.”

“Is that so?”

“Mm. Still think about it sometimes. Maybe openin’ a nice little bar somewhere back in the States, if I ever managed to hold still long enough. And get that bounty off my head.”

Hanzo smiles at the image of McCree tending bar for a living, pouring drinks and talking to customers.  “Truly? I cannot imagine you wanting to do something so mundane.”

“Well, it’d be better than retiring. Little safer than what I do now. And it’s pretty busy, and the folks are interesting, and there’s usually a fight or two to break up.” McCree smiles wistfully into his glass. “Maybe in another life, that’s where I’d be.”

“I can see the appeal.” It would be nice, Hanzo thinks, to stay in one place for a while, and not to worry about whether or not someone will attempt to kill him in his sleep every night.

“You ever want to do anything else? Besides the assassin thing?” 

Hanzo blinks down at his glass. “I . . . do not know,” he says truthfully. “I cannot imagine what else I would do. I did not even know what I would do when I left the family. I was raised for so long to believe I would take over that I hardly ever considered what else I may want.”

McCree gives him a wry half-smile. “I can imagine. Bet they had you runnin’ circles so long you didn’t even have a chance to think about anything else.”

“No. That was intentional, I imagine.”

“Yeah.” McCree makes a face at his drink. Then he grins and holds out the glass towards Hanzo in a gesture that takes him a moment to recognize as a toast.

“Then it’s settled,” McCree says. “In a few years, if we’re both still alive, we’re openin’ a bar in the States. You can do the numbers, I’ll handle the drinks and the people. We’ll make a killin’.”

Hanzo snorts. “You cannot be serious.”

“Why not? We’re a coupla talented folk. We could do it, if we wanted. Put some of that criminal business sense of yours to good use.”

Hanzo relents with a fond sigh and clinks his glass against McCree’s. They share a laugh, though Hanzo imagines his own reasoning for it is different than McCree’s.

Hanzo knows better than to put any faith in such a future. He imagines that in a few years, he and McCree will not even know each other, having long since separated on their own paths. The thought causes a deep-seated ache in his chest, so as they sit together nursing their drinks, putting off the inevitable chore of cleaning up, Hanzo allows himself to indulge in a vision of the future McCree put forth. A tiny bar on the edge of a city, a pleasant mix of regular customers and new, McCree chatting and mixing drinks and enjoying himself while Hanzo takes care of the quieter business. Going home together at the end of a long night. Stealing kisses in the back room, and sometimes behind the bar if the space allows . . . 

In another life, one where they had not made the choices they had, perhaps that would be a possibility. But not this one.

Hanzo sips his drink and watches McCree begin to gather the clutter behind the bar. He passes by Hanzo to grumble about the workload, and shoots Hanzo a warm, genuine smile. He looks at home here. Perhaps he could find something like this for himself one day. He deserves it more than Hanzo does. 

Hanzo, in spite of himself, smiles back. 


	3. Laundry/Chore Day

The nightmares aren’t that bad tonight, but they leave behind an anxiety that McCree just can’t shake off, like an oily film clinging to his skin. He doesn’t even try to go back to sleep, even after worst of the shakes have gone and the bloody images have faded from his brain, because he knows it’s a futile effort. His skin crawls and his heart races with leftover adrenaline. His head is in a fog but his body itches to move. While he’s just cognizant enough to recognize a low-key panic attack, he’s not enough so to stop it. 

Alcohol won’t help, not with this. He tries to light a cigarillo, but he fumbles the box and the lighter both, and leaves them both to their fate on the floor. 

So he cleans. 

He starts with Peacekeeper, but he just cleaned his gun yesterday and there’s not so much as a smudge of gunpowder on the barrel. He picks up his dorm, but despite his reputation for being messy, he only has a duffel bag’s worth of clothing and miscellanea, and he’s out of things to do five minutes later.

The kitchen. There’s always something in the kitchen. They had a big team dinner tonight and he’s pretty sure nobody cleaned up. There has to be something there. Or the rec room. Or anywhere. Anything to occupy him somewhere that isn’t his tiny dorm.

The halls are silent as he pads, barefoot (shoes might have been a good idea, he realizes only several minutes later) out of his room and toward the common areas. Strips of dim LED lights along the floorboards guide his way until he’s away from the agent dorms. In the main rooms, the automatic lights click on as he enters and flicker off again behind him, leaving no evidence of his passing. 

There’s a stack of dishes in the sink. McCree’s never been happier for dirty dishes in his life. There’s an industrial-sized dishwasher beside the sink, but it is rarely used, meant for cleaning up after a couple dozen high-ranking officers rather than a handful of ragtag vigilantes. Instead, McCree runs the water in one side of the sink, gets a sponge, and sets to work. 

He finishes washing the dishes. Then he dries the ones that aren’t quite there by the time he’s done and puts them all away. He notices the stove is a little dirty from Reinhardt’s cooking, so he finds some cleaner and scrubs that down, too. Then the counters. 

By the time he notices that Hanzo is standing five feet away, he’s halfway through sweeping the floors. McCree freezes, broom clutched in both hands.

Hanzo regards him with a thoughtful look. “It is awfully late for chores,” he says. 

McCree stares at the floor. “Yeah.”

“Could not sleep?” 

“No. Bad night.”

“I see.” 

McCree grimaces at the floor. He does not think Hanzo will mock him--they’re both too fucked up for that--but he knows how insane it is to be scrubbing the kitchen at two in the morning. That might get a remark, at least. 

Hanzo rests a hand on the counter. He taps a thumb against the edge. “Do you require any help?” he asks. 

McCree glances up. On further evaluation, Hanzo looks exhausted. His shoulders are slumped, his hair is a mess pulled to one side of his head, and the skin under his eyes is purple with lack of sleep. McCree doesn’t know what exactly keeps Hanzo up, but it’s not the first time they’ve crossed paths on nights like these. 

“Yeah,” he says, after too long a moment. “S’pose the fridge probably needs going through.”

Hanzo nods, and without another word, he crosses the room to the fridge. 

McCree finishes sweeping the floors, and spot-mops a couple of suspect stains. Hanzo clears some food from the fridge that’s probably downright poisonous and makes a list of what needs replaced. McCree wipes down the cabinets. Hanzo straightens up the adjoined dining room. When they’re done, the kitchen is sparkling like it hasn’t in years, but McCree still feels antsy. 

Hanzo looks at him expectantly. McCree shrugs tiredly and says, “S’pose I needed to do laundry, too.” 

They trudge back to their dorms in silence. McCree expects Hanzo to go to bed, but he is surprised when Hanzo rejoins him with a small basket of clothes. They go together to the communal laundry room, and it is not until they’re standing together against the wall, watching their clothes spin through the glass doors of the washers, that McCree can bring himself to speak again. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says. “This is--this is just me bein’ a mess. You don’t gotta help me with chores.”

“I am doing my own laundry. Not yours.” 

“The _ kitchen _ , Hanzo.”

Hanzo shrugs one shoulder. “That kitchen is used by a dozen people. It is not a job for one person. Besides, you did not ask. I offered.” 

McCree starts to protest again, but Hanzo cuts him off with a halfhearted glare. “You are not imposing,” he says wearily. “We have known each other long enough to know better, I would think.”

McCree shuts his mouth. Satisfied, Hanzo resettles. After a moment, Hanzo asks, “Are you alright? I realize I did not ask.”

“It’s fine. Just the usual shit.” McCree rubs his eyes. As the last traces of his anxiety are fading, he becomes acutely aware of the bone-deep tiredness that results from less than four hours of sleep. He’s trapped himself here, though, until his clothes make it to the dryer. “What about you?”

“The usual,” Hanzo echoes. McCree nods, and says nothing else--he knows by now that there’s nothing he can say. Some things have to work themselves out. 

It is nice, in a strange way, to have Hanzo here with him. McCree was feeling a bit better by the time they had finished in the kitchen, but Hanzo’s presence is soothing in a way that old habits simply aren’t. There’s a certain domesticity to this, too: doing chores side-by-side, as though it was simply something they did together. McCree’s never thought of himself as a family man--never thought he’d live to see 30 for awhile there, let alone long enough even think of settling down with a sweetheart. But this, and the thought of having it with Hanzo, is surprisingly pleasing. He might not mind the banality of domestic life--chores and shopping and all the tedious things that make up a daily existence--if it were with Hanzo. 

Tonight, though--tonight they are just two men with their own troubles, crossing paths as they often do. It’s almost enjoyable, for a given definition of the world. It would be nicer if perhaps they went back to bed together, but though the thought causes a disappointed twinge in McCree’s gut, it’s easily ignored in favor of savoring the warm affection he feels instead. Maybe he doesn’t get to go to bed with Hanzo in his arms, or have the right to think of a future that won’t exist, but for now, he feels alright with Hanzo simply standing beside him.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Hanzo catches his eye and makes a slight face. “What?” he asks.

McCree smiles a little, unable to help himself. Hanzo smiles too, though he seems uncertain why. “Nothin’,” McCree replies. “Just thinkin’, is all.”

The washer with Hanzo’s clothing beeps loudly, announcing the end of its cycle. Hanzo swiftly transfers his clothing to a dryer, while McCree waits for his own to finish. When he is done, Hanzo moves as though to leave, but he pauses by McCree to rest a hand on his shoulder. 

“Get some rest,” he says, a hint of a gentle smile on his lips. McCree has the sudden thought to kiss him good night, and has to remind himself that that isn’t something they do. 

“You too,” he says, and Hanzo departs. The warmth of his touch lingers on McCree’s skin for the rest of the night.


	4. Road Trip

They are four hours into the ten-hour drive to Barcelona when Hanzo’s phone rings. Hanzo is grateful for the distraction--despite his patience, he has never had enough of it for extended car rides--until he sees the name on the screen. He can already guess the tone that this conversation will take, and it somehow sours his already weary mood. 

“Who’s that?” McCree asks from the driver’s seat, sparing a glance. “The others checkin’ in?”

“Genji,” Hanzo replies dryly. He can already guess where this conversation will go.

A team of five is headed into Barcelona today, chasing a rumor of Talon operatives planning an operation in the area. They had opted not to take a shuttle for fear that they would be noticed--which meant two cars with five agents split among them are making the ten-hour drive to Barcelona instead. Hanzo and McCree were together, leaving Genji, Lena, and Angela in the other. Angela had sent a check-in text an hour earlier, which means that Genji is most likely being bothersome for the sake of it.  

 

_ From: Genji    1:47 PM  
_ _ You should tell him. _

 

Hanzo stifles a groan. They had started this conversation before the drive. He had hoped Genji would leave it alone, but that had clearly been a long shot. 

 

To: Genji     1:48 PM  
_ I will not.  _

 

_ From: Genji    1:48 PM  
_ _ You are just being stubborn for the sake of it.  _

 

_ To: Genji     1:49 PM  
_ _ You are being nosy and annoying.  _

 

_ From: Genji    1:49 PM  
_ _ That’s my job. Nosy and annoying little brother. Who also just wants to see you happy for a change, instead of pining and sulking around.  _

 

_ To: Genji     1:50 PM  
_ _ I do not sulk. _

 

_ From: Genji     1:51 PM  
_ _ Not only do you sulk better than anyone else, but you don’t even deny that you’re pining. _ _   
_ _   
_ _ From: Genji 1:51 PM  
_ __ You can do you what you want, Hanzo. But I don’t think this IS what you want. And I don’t think it will end as badly as you think it will if you would just tell him.

 

Hanzo pockets his phone. He must be making a face, because McCree looks over and asks, “Everything alright there?”

“Fine.” 

McCree seems unsatisfied by the answer, but he does not push it. Instead, he says, “Well, we’re comin’ up on the midway point. We’ll pull over for a bit, stretch our legs before we switch. Might improve the mood a bit.”

“Good,” Hanzo sighs, looking back out the window at the passing Spanish scenery. “I despise long car rides like this.”

“I take it your family wasn’t much of a road-trippin’ kind.”

“Of course not. If we had to go anywhere that look longer than an hour to drive, we flew, or took the train.”

McCree snorts. “‘Course you did.” 

“I have never met anyone who was not an American who  _ enjoyed _ driving across entire countries.” 

“We’re not driving across the entirely of Spain. Just . . . most of it.” McCree winces, shifting in his seat. “Though I feel ya, this is gettin’ a little tiresome. Was a lot more fun when my old dad did all the drivin’ and I just looked out the windows and ate all the chips.”

“Is this something you did often then?” Hanzo props his head in his hand and his elbow against the window to look at McCree. He latches on to the glimpse in McCree’s childhood, thirsty as always for anything new he can learn about McCree. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say often. Not like we could afford to make big trips. But sometimes we’d go down to the river, and that was about an hour and a half out one way, so we’d pack some food, pile all of us into the car, and it was kind of a road trip. And at that age, an hour and a half sure felt like it took all day.”

Hanzo chuckles, reclining further into his seat. “I can imagine. Father started taking us on business trips when I was a teenager, but Genji was still a few years too young to be patient. He did not care for the long flights.”

McCree laughs. “Truth be told, I’m a grown man and I’m not so fond of ‘em, either.”

The conversation lapses, and the silence between them is comfortable, filled by the old American country music playing from the speakers. McCree’s playlist must have repeated twice by now, and truthfully the music by itself is starting to grate on Hanzo’s nerves, but there is an upside. After a few moments have passed and the conversation does not pick up again, McCree returns to singing along with the radio, and Hanzo turns to look out the window to hide his smile. 

The driving is dull, and his legs and back are beginning to ache, but this is nice, at least. The sound of McCree’s rich, deep voice crooning along to songs of lost love and good whiskey is almost enough to make the trip worth it by itself. Hanzo closes his eyes and simply listens for a minute or two.

His thoughts eventually drift back to the conversation with Genji, however, and in this little private bubble of contentment, Hanzo cannot help but wonder. There have been a few instances in these past weeks, tiny things that he could not adequately describe to another person: a  certain tilt to McCree’s smile that Hanzo does not see except when they are alone, the way his gaze sometimes lingers when he thinks Hanzo does not see, fleeting touches that are steadily becoming more common. Whether these are all new developments or Hanzo is simply noticing things that had always been there, he cannot say. 

And in the light of the last few weeks, after the bed and the bar and their most recent late-night meeting, he cannot help but wonder if there is a glimmer of something more between them. Nothing he can rely on, nothing yet that comes close to convincing him to talk to McCree, but something nonetheless. 

The song playing now is a standard country number, as far as Hanzo can tell. McCree sings along to a tale of young newfound love, and just for a moment, Hanzo catches McCree looking his way.

Only for a moment. 

Then the moment passes, and his gaze is firmly back on the road. Hanzo swallows hard and tries to will away the warmth he feels rising in his cheeks. He does not look back until they reach the midpoint.

Eventually, McCree pulls off the highway onto an exit, and they stop at a gas station to trade spots and stretch their legs. While McCree ducks into the shop, Hanzo remains outside. His phone pings with another text while he is stretching his back.

 

_ From: Genji     2:32 PM  
_ _ Checking in. Still alive here. Everything still okay? _

 

_ To: Genji 2:33 PM  
_ _ Fine. We have stopped for a minute, but will be driving again shortly.  _

 

_ From: Genji 2:33 PM  
_ _ Have you thought about what I said? _

 

Hanzo huffs. For all his flightiness when they were young, Genji has always been stubborn when he wants something. 

Before he can respond to his brother, McCree comes back out of the store. He carries a paper cup of coffee in each hand, and offers one to Hanzo. “Figured you’d want a pick-me-up before we got goin’ again,” he says with a pleasant smile. “Ready to go?”

Hanzo reaches out to take the cup. For a brief moment, their fingers brush, sliding between each other. He sees McCree’s gaze flicker down, just for a fraction of a second, and his hold lingers before he lets go of the cup. 

He texts Genji back before he gets into the car:  _ I have _ . 

The coffee is hot and sweet, just as he likes it. He does not remember if he has ever told McCree that fact. 

Despite the coffee, McCree dozes off in his seat within a half-hour. Hanzo spends part of the drive amusing himself along the way with thoughts of taking McCree’s hand to hold on the console between them, or leaning over to steal a quick kiss while the road is straight and empty, or simply pulling over and insinuating himself into McCree’s lap . . . 

The pangs in his stomach when he remembers that he cannot have these things still hurt, but they aren’t quite as sharp as they usually are. 


	5. On the Job/On a Mission

The streets on the outskirts of Barcelona are quiet in the early evening, the evening air cool but not unpleasant. The team had arrived yesterday evening, and tonight they wait to intercept a Talon transport convoy. McCree can’t see most of the others, but knows that they are nearby. He himself waits on the second-story balcony of an empty department store, a cigarillo between his teeth. 

Hanzo, as he often is, is perched atop a nearby building with his bow drawn, his eyes on the streets below. He is backlit by the light of a crescent moon and cutting a dramatic silhouette. A  gentle breeze catches the tails of his silk hair tie and sends them dancing--though McCree hasn’t seen Hanzo wear his traditional  _ gi _ in some time, the hair ties remain a favorite (for him, too, though he would never say it). He’s close enough that McCree can see the focused expression on his face, and it sends a little thrill through his gut. Hanzo at work is always a treat to watch, and he can’t help but wonder what it might be like to be the center of that focus.

Hanzo must do this on purpose, McCree thinks.

He clicks his comm to a private channel, long ago established just for him and Hanzo to talk. “So’s the flair for the dramatic like a Shimada family thing, or is that just you?” he asks. 

He watches and grins as Hanzo turns toward him, a frown on his face. “What are you talking about?” he asks. 

“You know damn well. Lookin’ all handsome and dramatic and whatnot.”

Hanzo makes an odd face. McCree only realizes then that the word “handsome” had passed his lips. “I am doing no such thing,” Hanzo says, either missing or completely ignoring the odd word out. 

“Bullshit. There’s no way you just  _ happen _ to put yourself up right against the moon lookin’ all mysterious every time I look at you. Or Genji, for that matter. Must be genetics.”

“You are being ridiculous.”

“No more ridiculous than you are.”

McCree can’t see from here, but he imagines Hanzo is rolling his eyes in playful disbelief, as he often does when conversing with McCree.

Quiet lapses between them for a moment. McCree listens for any communication from the rest of the team, but there is nothing. He sees a brief, bright flash of electric blue down the road--Tracer on the move--but no updates come. He sighs on an exhale of cigarillo smoke. 

“Never did like this part of workin’,” he says. 

He sees Hanzo tilt his head towards him. “What part?”

“Waitin’ around. Did a lot of it in Blackwatch. Never much cared for it.”

“Some things require patience, McCree.”

“I got patience when I need it. Don’t mean I have to like it.”

Hanzo chuckles, a rich, warm sound that soothes the edges of McCree’s restlessness. “Fair enough,” he says. “I admit, this does get tedious after a while.”

“It really does. I got used to it while I was still with Blackwatch, but I still hate waitin’ around when we could be gettin’ something done.” McCree considers, then adds, “Not that I mind a good vacation.”

“This is hardly a vacation.”

“It could be. There’s a couple bars down the road.”

Hanzo snorts, amused, and McCree can’t help grinning. “I thought we already had this discussion about drinking on missions,” Hanzo says.

“Maybe after, then.”

A beat passes. Then McCree says, “Can I ask you something?”

“That depends on the question.”

McCree worries the inside of his lip. He’s thought of this a few times now, but never ended up actually asking. It wasn’t a question easily brought up in conversation, but nonetheless one that McCree found himself coming back to over and over again, particularly in the last few weeks. “What are you gonna do after this?”

A pause. “What do you mean?”

“After all . . . this.” He gestures vaguely, though Hanzo may not see. “After we’re done here with Overwatch. It’s not like Overwatch is gonna be reinstated anytime soon, and we can’t keep this up forever, and I know you really only came here in the first place for your brother.”

There is a long pause. McCree tries to ignore the traitorous, rapid beating of his heart. 

“I do not know,” Hanzo eventually says. “I suppose I will return to my mercenary work, as I did before this.”

“That’s all?”

Hanzo shrugs, a barely-visible gesture from where McCree stands. “I do not know what else I would do. Perhaps Genji has other thoughts on what we should do, but . . . I truly do not know.”

The answer causes something to twist tight in McCree’s chest. He had not seriously considered that they would part ways, too focused on what was happening now. Unconsciously, he had always assumed--hoped?--that he would be at Hanzo’s side, one way or another. Perhaps not romantically, but they were close friends at this point, and those were hard to come by--was he so mistaken to think that Hanzo thought the same? 

Most likely. Hell, McCree had plenty of friends in Overwatch when he chose to leave, and that had been after years of working side-by-side. Why should Hanzo feel differently? Because McCree was head-over-heels for him? As though that made a difference, when McCree was too much of a  coward to tell him. 

“Why?” Hanzo asks, looking back toward McCree. “Does that concern you?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘concern,’” McCree replies, once again lying through his teeth. “Just wonderin’, is all. Thought you might have given a little more thought to that bar we talked about.”

“ _ We have a visual on the convoy _ ,” Genji cuts in suddenly, abruptly reminding them both of the presence of their teammates. “ _ Get ready to move. _ ”

“Well,” McCree says, pulling Peacekeeper from its holster, “be careful out there. Can’t start that bar up if you go and kick it now, can we?”

He expects a retort, but none is forthcoming. He risks a glance up at Hanzo, and he looks . . . startled, somehow thoughtful, like something has just occurred to him. Then he turns away, drawing an arrow, and McCree forgets about it in favor of getting down to the street. 

The convoy arrives, two dark, unmarked vans driving together down the empty road and into Barcelona city limits. On either side of the road, Tracer has planted a pulse bomb, and both ignite perfectly as the vans pass by. The explosion is painfully loud and dizzyingly bright, providing the cover the team needs to burst onto the scene. 

Tracer and Genji lead the assault, swift and invisible. McCree is close behind, hurling a flashbang into the first masked face he sees and following with a one-two shot from Peacekeeper. Mercy is close by, maintaining cover but her staff at the ready. Overhead, an arrow streaks through the night, catching a Talon soldier in the chest mere seconds after he steps out of the van.

The firefight that ensues is like any other. McCree doesn’t dare call it mundane--any moment where he could be hurt or killed should not be called  _ mundane _ \--but it is reminiscent of the dozens of other scuffles he has been in. Flashbang, fire, duck and reload, scan the scene, fire again--it is simple, as far as fights ago. 

Despite the adrenaline and the danger, McCree finds his attention drawn to Hanzo, again and again. Hanzo is always a sight to behold during a mission, and tonight is no different. He starts atop the building, his firing arm a blur as he looses arrow after arrow, but when it becomes apparent that he cannot continue fighting effectively from his perch, he leaps down effortlessly He lands on his feet and lets his forward momentum carry him through a roll, and when he is upright again, he instantly has another arrow nocked on his bow and pulled tight on the string. Even under his wide-collared jacket, McCree can imagine the shoulders in Hanzo’s back and shoulders flexing with every movement, the sheer power behind every pull of the bowstring. 

Hanzo is graceful, too, moreso than one might expect. He is built strong, the muscles in his upper body seemingly carved into perfection, but every move is calculated and smooth. He twists and dodges oncoming bullets and enemies without a hint of distress, and McCree is riveted by the sight. 

“McCree, look out!” Tracer shouts, yanking McCree’s attention back to his own life as a Talon soldier takes aim with an assault rifle. A flashbang and a quick fanning of the hammer takes her out quickly, but McCree still grimaces.

He can’t keep carrying on for Hanzo like this. As far gone as he is, he’s going to get himself killed one of these days, and if he doesn’t . . . well, he might just be in for a lifetime of pining and misery, if he keeps it up. 

He has to tell him. For better or worse. He doesn’t expect Hanzo to care about him, at least not that way, but he has to  _ know _ . McCree’s never been one to let something like this go on so long, and he’s about to reach his breaking point. Maybe he’ll wait until they’re back at the Watchpoint. Wait for one of the nights they drink together, or go shooting. Something casual, so he can ease into the conversation. And if it ends badly, well, that’s better than this horrible limbo he’s trapped himself in. 

The fight ends fairly quickly, the Talon soldiers subdued and the cargo seized. Mercy makes their report to Winston while Genji and Tracer gather the cargo. McCree keeps an eye out with Hanzo for any interlopers, though he doesn’t expect anyone else to show up. 

“Well,” he says, holstering his pistol and straightening his hat, “that was nice and straightforward.”

Hanzo does not answer. His gaze is distant, turned somewhere down the road, though there is nothing to be seen.

“Han? You alright there?”

"Go on a date with me," Hanzo says.

McCree freezes. He stares at Hanzo. Hanzo looks back at him, looking as startled as he feels. "What?" McCree asks, choked.

Hanzo swallows hard. He looks surprised, even frightened by what he has said, but his gaze never wavers. "Will you," he amends, and clears his throat. "Will you go on a date with me?"

"Um."

Hanzo waits. McCree can't find a damn word to say. He's thought about a scenario like this a hundred times, but never with Hanzo being the one to ask. Definitely never with Hanzo looking so terrified, like the world might collapse around him depending on what McCree said. 

"Y-yeah, darlin'," McCree finally says. His mouth is drier than any day he spent in the deserts of New Mexico. "'Course I will."

Hanzo nods once, stiffly. His eyes turn toward the ground. "Good," he says. "I--good." He shuffles slightly, his boots tapping gently on the ground. His cheeks flush a ruddy red, the prettiest sight McCree has ever seen. "I realize this is a bit . . .  unorthodox."

"No!" McCree interrupts quickly. "It's fine. Totally fine. It's a date, sweetheart."

Hanzo nods again. He turns away, but not quickly enough to hide the smile that spreads across his face. McCree's heart leaps.

“Is this--” he starts.

“The shuttle will be here in twenty minutes,” Hanzo says, addressing nobody. “We should get going.”

McCree recognizes a request to be left alone when he hears it. He swallows down the rest of his sentence and says instead, “Yeah. We’ll get movin’.”

He doesn’t get moving, not immediately. His boots are rooted to the asphalt beneath them. Tracer and Mercy pass by him, casting amused smiles in his direction as they follow Hanzo toward the drop zone. Genji, too, starts to pass, but he pauses at McCree’s side. He drops a hand on McCree’s shoulder.

“You are both idiots,” he says companionably. 

“Yeah,” McCree says, unable to stop the grin he feels coming on. “Yeah, maybe.”

Hanzo doesn’t talk to him for the entirety of the shuttle ride home, but every time McCree looks in his direction, he catches him smiling.


	6. Date Night

Hanzo regrets every decision that he has ever made that led to this night. 

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, searching for a flaw in his appearance, but after fifteen minutes of grooming, he must admit there is nothing left. His hair is combed and freshly-washed, left down and pulled to the side (he hates how it tickles his neck, but tonight justifies the look). It took him half an hour, but he eventually chose a dark, fitted shirt, the sleeves pulled up just high enough to glimpse a few inches of his tattoo. His piercings have all been swapped out for simple, matte-black sets. He grimaces at himself, frustrated for placing so much importance on his appearance in a way that, despite his vanity, he has never done before.

But everything is important tonight. 

He mutters a swear, not for the first time this evening, and puts his face in his hands. Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid _ . Stupid for being so useless, stupid for ever asking McCree out on this date in the first place. He has one evening, one solitary chance to show McCree what he means to him, and he had decided to do that with a  _ date.  _ As though they were strangers who needed to get to know each other, not close friends. As though dinner and mediocre entertainment were sufficient to show McCree the actual depth of his feelings. 

He glances down at his phone on the countertop. The time reads 5:53. Seven minutes until he is meant to meet McCree, thirty-seven minutes until their reservation, and he is still standing in the bathroom without socks or shoes because he is too worked up to finish getting ready.

Hanzo takes a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. It does little to calm his anxiety, but it helps to clear his thoughts. He has planned exhaustively for tonight. He is a master assassin, and he has done many, many things that are far more dangerous than a simple date. 

But, he thinks grimly as he leaves the bathroom to finally find footwear, none of those things mattered nearly so much. 

 

\--

 

He meets McCree in the garage, where a vehicle--discreetly requested from Winston, who had not been able to hid his smile when Hanzo told him why he needed it--awaits them. He feels a burst of satisfaction when he sees McCree’s pace slow as he approaches, his gaze flickering down Hanzo’s body and up again in clear appreciation. McCree, too, is looking handsome in a pair of dark jeans and the same deep crimson dress shirt he wore undercover at the bar those weeks ago. Hanzo’s breath sticks in his throat at the sight. 

Then McCree is standing in front of him, looking expectant, and Hanzo shakes away the distractions. “Hey there, handsome,” McCree says, a playful grin on his face. “Now tell me how I got so lucky as to get a date with someone as pretty as you.”

Hanzo snorts derisively, although the compliment does light a warmth in his belly. “Are you ready?” he asks. 

“Sure am. Lookin’ forward to what you have set up. Can’t imagine what the great Hanzo Shimada considers to be a good date.”

Hanzo laughs. “You say that as if I should not know.”

McCree rounds the front of the car to the passenger’s side. “I’m just sayin’, an ex-Yakuza assassin might not have the same ideas I do about what makes for a good first date.”

“I think you will be pleasantly surprised.” 

McCree’s grin softens into a warm smile. “Y’know what,” he says as he climbs into the car, “I think I will be, too.”

 

\--

 

They are stopped before they even set foot in the restaurant.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman at the door says, glancing again through the list on her tablet. “We’re completely full tonight. You and your friend--”

Hanzo scowls. “My  _ date _ and I have a reservation,” he interrupts coolly. “I specifically requested our table yesterday and was told it was ours.”

“Yesterday?” he hears McCree repeat in quiet bewilderment. 

“Of course,” Hanzo replies, turning to look at him. “I wanted tonight to go smoothly,  _ specifically _ to prevent something like this happening.”

The woman bites her lip. “I’m sorry,” she says again. “The owner suddenly scheduled a large event at the last minute. All of our tables are full. There’s nothing I can do.”

Hanzo starts to say something else, but McCree’s hand on his back stops him. “Sweetheart, let her be,” he says soothingly. “We’ll head somewhere else. Nothin’ we can do about it now.”

Hanzo is not entirely mollified, but McCree’s touch is sufficiently distracting, and he is willing to follow McCree’s gentle tug away if it means his hand stays there. “Fine,” he says. “I did have another place in mind, if things came to it. We will go there instead.” 

 

\--

 

The second restaurant is closed due a large water leak. There are no staff to tell them this, only a digital sign on the front door, because all of the staff can be seen through the windows mopping up the floors and moving wet furniture.

Hanzo puts his face in his hands. McCree chuckles a little. “We’re havin’ some kind of luck tonight,” he says. “Maybe we should wait on dinner for a bit. What else did you have planned?”

 

\--

 

Gibraltar boasts a truly lovely botanical garden center, first established over 200 years ago. Since then, it has grown into a cultural centerpiece, filled to the brim with hundreds of species of flora surrounding gorgeous architecture--palms and succulents and beautiful flowering plants. Alongside its gardens, it also houses wildlife protections and a small concert venue. Hanzo had originally planned a tour of the gardens, followed by listening to a local band at the venue. 

They are turned away at the doors. 

“I’m so sorry,” says the omnic blocking their way, his hands fidgeting nervously. “We have to close early tonight.”

“You gotta be kiddin’,” McCree says. Hanzo cannot help wincing--even McCree’s patience is wearing thin. 

“I’m sorry. There was a rather large accident with the band, and--”

Hanzo turns away without listening to the rest of the excuse, gritting his teeth. McCree takes a moment to apologize, then quickly catches up with Hanzo. 

“Alright,” McCree says. “How about we just--go for a walk in the park. Now I  _ know _ that one we passed a little big ago is open today, and it won’t get dark for a while yet.”

“Fine.”

 

\--

 

The park, at least, does turn out a little better. 

The sun hasn’t set quite yet, so the air is pleasantly crisp and their way is lit by the golden light of near-sunset. There are only a few others in the park, leaving them undisturbed as they take their time to wander amongst the tall trees and small gardens.McCree’s arm quickly finds its way to Hanzo’s waist, drawing him against his side as they walk. Hanzo, eventually, returns the gesture. They talk about their last missions, the things they used to do before Overwatch was recalled. McCree tells an old story involving Genji, and Hanzo counters with one from his and Genji’s childhood. Hanzo almost manages to forget about the disaster that was the first half of their evening. 

“So tell me somethin’,” McCree says after a brief, comfortable lapse in conversation. Hanzo looks up, and briefly marvels at just how close it puts them. It would take so little effort to lean up and steal a kiss that Hanzo is sorely tempted, but he resists, if only just, in favor of listening to McCree.

McCree opens his mouth to speak, then stops, then starts again. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just--not that I’m complainin’, but what made you ask me out here?”

Hanzo frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean--we were finishin’ up a mission, first off. Plus I sorta thought you just didn’t do this.” He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. Hanzo is uncertain why he is so embarrassed. “And we’ve known each other for a good while now, but this is the first time anything like this has come up. Kinda surprised me on a lot of fronts there.”

Hanzo’s heart stutters in his chest. “I--” he starts, then stops when he cannot find the words. He tries again. “This is not the first time I have thought of this.”

McCree looks surprised, but a pleased smile plays at the corner of his lips. “Really?”

“No. I have wanted to do this for . . . some time.”

McCree comes to a stop, which jolts Hanzo into stopping, too. “Really,” he says again, his smile spreading. 

Hanzo nods once, looking away as he feels his face start to warm. “I had not said anything before because I was . . . uncertain. But Genji kept insisting that I tell you, and when you mentioned your idea of owning a bar again, I suppose I simply realized that I did not know how much time I had in the future. I did not want to miss an opportunity.”

It’s a highly sanitized version of events, but Hanzo doesn’t dare tell McCree just how desperately in love with him he truly is. Not yet. As it is, he’s certain he’s tipped his hand too far, and now McCree must be preparing to run away in fear. 

But he doesn’t. When Hanzo dares to look back at McCree, he finds McCree looking down at him with a warm, borderline adoring expression. 

“You have no idea how happy I am to hear that,” he says softly. 

Hanzo swallows around a sudden lump of emotion in his throat. “You are?”

“I really am.” McCree moves to take Hanzo’s hands in his own. “Listen, Hanzo, I--”

He suddenly stops. His gaze flickers away toward something over Hanzo’s shoulder. His warm smile immediately drops, and he mutters, “Oh, hell.”

Alarm cuts through Hanzo’s anticipation. “What?” he asks, just as he hears a distressed shout somewhere behind him. His stomach sinks with cold dread as he turns. 

A hundred feet away, in a corner of the park, two masked figures hold a young couple at gunpoint. 

Hanzo knows what McCree is going to say even before he opens his mouth. “We gotta take care of that,” he says. 

Hanzo can’t help a slight sigh. McCree huffs a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s our luck,” he says. He reaches up and tenderly brushes a piece of Hanzo’s hair from his eyes. “We’ll come right back to this, but you know we can’t just ignore that.”

“No,” Hanzo sighs, already turning toward the unfortunate couple and their would-be robbers, “I would not want to.”

These criminals are going to regret ruining Hanzo’s date.

 

\--

 

The thugs are quickly, disarmed and sent packing, but not without a few casualties. No one is seriously injured, thankfully, but Hanzo’s shirt is torn when one of the muggers pulls a knife, and McCree takes a tumble over some unsteady ground when the other tries to flee and turns the scene into a cross-park chase.

Wallets and purses are returned to their owners, and McCree and Hanzo take seats on a park bench to sort themselves out. Hanzo tries to pull his shirt back together, but it will not hold, leaving a strip of his abdomen visible to anyone who happens to walk by. McCree’s shirt is filthy with mud and grass stains, and a small amount of blood beads from a rough scrape on McCree’s forearm.

“Well,” McCree says, wiping the blood off on a cleaner part of his shirt, “can’t say I’ve had a date quite like this before.”

“I am sorry,” Hanzo says bitterly, unable to hide his frustration. “None of this has gone how I meant it.” 

“It’s alright, darlin’,” McCree says gently, abandoning the muddy stains on his shirt as a lost cause. “It’s not your fault--”

“That does not matter!” Hanzo interrupts, exasperated and angry. “Tonight was  _ important _ . I planned for this so carefully, because I wanted it to go well, and yet nothing seems to have mattered.”

“I think you might be overthinkin’ this a little,” McCree says. He clearly means to be reassuring, but it only causes another flare of frustration for Hanzo. 

“How am I overthinking?” he snaps. “I just wanted you to enjoy yourself, and all of my plans are ruined. Is it so ridiculous to want to show how I--”

He falters, realizing he’s dangerously close to saying too much, and traps the rest of his words behind his teeth. He feels a blush burn his cheeks, and he looks away, embarrassed and frustrated.

“I am sorry,” he mutters. “This is a disaster, but it is not your fault.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he looks up again reluctantly. He is surprised to see McCree smiling. 

“Hanzo, don’t get me wrong, that’s real sweet of you,” he says, “but none of this matters to me. You coulda gotten us both arrested and I’d still be happy to be spendin’ time with you.” 

Hanzo scoffs, but McCree shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeats. “What matters is us bein’ together. We can do that without a fancy dinner or whatever else. You don’t gotta impress me--you did that a long time ago.”

In spite of everything, Hanzo can’t help smiling a little at this. 

McCree’s hand strokes down his arm soothingly. “Besides,” he says, “there’s really only two things I was hopin’ to do tonight.”

Hanzo narrows his eyes. “And what are those?”

McCree’s smile widens. His other hand comes up to cup the side of Hanzo’s face, fingers weaving through Hanzo’s hair and gripping Hanzo’s jaw and neck. He leans down, and Hanzo finally understands just before their lips meet.

McCree kisses him gently, but with certainty and with a confidence that Hanzo himself has not felt all night. Hanzo can’t breathe, can barely think, but he has just enough presence of mind left to respond in kind. He presses up, kissing back, one hand finding a hold in the satiny, if muddy, fabric of McCree’s shirt. The kiss deepens, lips parting as they come back together, and Hanzo’s mind goes blissfully, utterly blank.

When they break apart, it takes Hanzo a long moment to open his eyes. McCree looks equally dazed, a faint flush in his cheeks. When Hanzo finally finds his voice again, he asks, “And what was the other thing?”

McCree’s grin turns lascivious. “Should probably show you that one in private,” he says, and Hanzo barks a surprised laugh.

“You are ridiculous,” Hanzo says fondly. He feels light and full with a growing sense of happiness and disbelief. 

“Mm, I might be. But it seems to be workin’.” 

McCree rests his forehead against Hanzo’s for a moment, his eyes drifting shut. “Listen. I got an idea, if you’re willin’.” Hanzo hums inquisitively, and McCree continues, “Let’s head back. Pick up somethin’ to eat from that Chinese place you like, get a couple bottles of wine, and go from there. I think . . . maybe we’re goin’ about this a little backwards.”

Hanzo frowns. “How is it backwards?”

“Because--” McCree hesitates just a moment. “Well, it seems to me that we’ve both been sittin’ on this for a long time, and maybe we’re just a little too far gone to be messin’ around with all this. Honestly, Hanzo . . . I’m head over heels for ya as it is. We don’t need to do all this.”

Hanzo’s breath leaves him all at once. He tries to find words, but none come forth. So instead, he gives his answer in the form of another kiss, dragging McCree down by the front of his ruined shirt until their lips meet again. He feels McCree smile against his mouth.

Eventually they do manage to untangle themselves long enough to get going again. They buy an absurd amount of Chinese to take home, and a couple of bottles of the cheapest wine they can find from a corner store, and go back to the Watchpoint. They retire to Hanzo’s quarters for the rest of the night and from there--

Well, it goes pretty well after that.


	7. Home for the Holidays

McCree sleeps badly as it is, but tonight is even worse. On another day, it might bother him more, but he knows the reason tonight. He never slept well on Christmas Eve as a child--though, since it’s well past midnight though, he suppose it’s just Christmas now--and in spite of his age, that never quite faded away for him. 

He stays in bed for a while, staring up at the ceiling. The room, and the rest of the base, is silent in the stillness of the night. Not even the wash of the sea against the cliffs or the harsh cries of the gulls reaches the dorms through the reinforced walls. The heater is on, silently filtering warm air from near the baseboards, but there is still a faint chill in the room, the imprint of winter that can never quite be chased away. Beside him, Hanzo is still asleep, undisturbed by McCree’s wakefulness or the significance of the night. 

McCree turns his head to look at Hanzo, and he can’t smother his smile. Hanzo still sleeps curled up tight in the blanket, his face half-hidden under the folds. His hair goes every which way, unbound from the strict style of daytime. His expression is one of true calm, a rarity. 

They’ve been together just over two weeks now, though it has been around a month and a half since the first night they shared a bed. That night simultaneously feels like it was years ago, and like it occurred yesterday. McCree has a hard time remembering when it didn’t feel as natural as breathing air to have Hanzo lying beside him, yet it amuses him to think that not long ago, he couldn’t sleep for fear that he would destroy an entire friendship with his wants. 

Not that he truly had to worry about that after all, he supposes. 

Finally, he decides that he’s not going to go back to sleep until he’s had a good pace around the building, at least, and sits up. He picks up a pack of cigarillos and his lighter from the bedside table, pulls on a shirt and a pair of pajama pants (and smiles to himself when he remembers exactly why those items are on opposite ends of the room), and pads out of the dorm, leaving Hanzo to slumber on. 

He makes his way around the outer halls of the building, following the wide perimeter. The way around is a quarter-mile walk at least, which is usually just enough to help him settle down on less-difficult nights. He lights his cigarillo as he goes and puffs from it leisurely, grounding himself in the familiar taste and the gentle burn of smoke against his palate. It’ll kill him one day, if something else doesn’t first, but damned if it isn’t a pleasure while it does. 

Once his walk takes him to the other end of the building, he pauses. Normally he would continue on and loop back to bed--where a sleepy Hanzo still awaits him--but the gentle glow of multicolored lights in the rec room draws him off the beaten path. 

The holidays in Overwatch have always been a varied, hectic sort of thing. Way back when, everyone was usually too busy to put together anything significant, although that didn’t stop the soldiers and the officers alike from decorating and hosting parties when the time allowed. This year, there’s just enough folks to justify putting something together, but not so many that it became impossible. 

Zarya and Mei had taken it upon themselves to find a tree, and everyone had contributed to the decorations in some way: Lucio and Hana had done lights (not just on the tree, either, as several strands were artfully placed around the entire room), Genji and Zenyatta had contributed a number of origami snowflakes and convinced Hanzo to add to the selection, and everyone else had managed to find at least one or two ornament-sized objects. The tree was a hectic mash-up of random objects suspended on thin wire as a result: some large metal bolts from Torbjorn, some empty bullet casings from McCree himself, a tiny guitar ornament from Fareeha that no one knew the origins of, a few actual delicate glass bulbs in silver and blue from Angela, some pieces of circuits and electronics from Winston, and a number of others. The wide table in the center of the room held an ornate silver menorah, too, with multicolored candles that were currently unlit but still standing tall, with a couple of dreidels and a few decorations emblazoned with the Star of David. Not everyone was as intent on Christmas as some of the others, but everyone found something to enjoy about the season.

McCree smiles a little as he looks over the room. Tomorrow, everyone remaining would eventually gather here. Torbjorn had already gone home to his family in Sweden and Brigette had gone with him, but Lena had Emily in from London, and Winston had elected to reduce missions for the holiday season as much as he could so the team could be here. Home. 

His walk forgotten, McCree takes a seat in the corner of the squashy old couch, which he’s certain has been here since he was in Blackwatch. He finishes his cigarillo as he sits, letting his thoughts wander, until they are interrupted by the gentle patter of footsteps approaching from the hall. 

“You have been gone a while,” Hanzo says softly from the doorway. 

McCree looks over his shoulder. Hanzo stands with a steaming mug in each hand, his hair still sleep-ruffled and with one of McCree’s flannel shirts hanging loosely from his frame. He pads over and offers a mug to McCree--hot cider, a nod to the season as well as Hanzo’s desperate attempt to get McCree to stop drinking caffeine at night. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” McCree murmurs, taking the mug and extending his other arm out. Hanzo takes the hint and sinks into the couch beside him, leaning heavily against his side. “Didn’t mean to be gone too long. Was gonna be back in just a bit.” 

“It is fine. Are you alright?”

“Yeah. Just feelin’ a bit antsy. Always did on Christmas Eve.” McCree takes a sip of the cider, and the tastes of warm spice and tart apple burst across his tongue. “Thanks for this, darlin’. This just about soothes my soul, but you didn’t have to come lookin’ for me.”

“I woke up shortly after you left, and I could not go back to sleep.” Hanzo wraps his hands around his mug, breathing in the scent drifting up on the curls of steam. “It seems I am too used to having you in my bed already.”

McCree grins, embracing Hanzo tighter. “Ain’t no such thing as being ‘too used’ to that.”

“Mm. Perhaps.”

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you took my shirt, by the way.” McCree plucks at the flannel at Hanzo’s shoulder. 

Hanzo blushes a little, but he simply replies, “It was close and it is warm. I will not apologize.”

McCree chuckles and presses a kiss to the side of Hanzo’s head, and marvels at the shy smile Hanzo gives in return. 

They sit together for a little while in silence, sipping at their drinks and watching the flickering lights on the tree and the walls. It is cooler in here than it was the dorm, but the warmth shared between their bodies is more than enough to chase away the chill. Hanzo rests his head against McCree’s shoulder, unprompted, and McCree rests his cheek against Hanzo’s hair, and they stay that way for some time. 

McCree’s chest aches from just how  _ good _ all of this is. It’s hard to believe he has all this, and it’s only been two weeks. What might it be like in a few months? A year? Several years from now? His heart thumps at the thought of sharing a Christmas like this next year, and in years after that. It’s too early to be thinking about that kind of thing, really, but god, just the thought of it makes him smile. The rest of Overwatch might come and go--he has no idea what the fate of their ragtag team might be, if they’ll scatter again or all get arrested or miraculously come to be hailed as heroes. But this time last year, he was getting black-out drunk in a dingy bar in Dorado, no home or family to go back to; now he has more than he knows what to do with, and the best part of it is pretending that he isn’t falling asleep in his arms. 

Tomorrow, they’ll wake up and it’ll be Christmas proper. They’ll join the rest of the team for gifts and a hideously unhealthy breakfast courtesy of Reinhardt and Lena. McCree will probably wait to give Hanzo his in private (a pair of circular earrings with centers of textured dragon scales from a local artist, lord, young people were creative these days) and convince him to help mull a couple bottles of sweet red wine while they laze around the rest of the day. 

In a few days more, the new year start, and after that . . . well, who knows, but he has a good feeling about it.

“Hanzo?” he murmurs. Hanzo sleepily hums back, awake but drowsy. McCree laughs softly. “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to say . . .”

He trails off. Concerned, or perhaps simply curious, Hanzo blinks himself back to wakefulness and lifts his head to look at him. There’s a faint crease in his cheek from McCree’s shirt, which McCree rubs with his thumb. 

“I’m glad we’re here,” he says. “That’s all.”

Hanzo looks at him for a long moment, first confused, then understanding. Then he smiles, tilting his head up for a kiss, which McCree readily gives, cupping Hanzo’s face in his hand. The sweetness of apple cider lingers between their lips. 

“So am I,” Hanzo murmurs against his mouth.

When they part, they settle back in, unwilling to move for a little while longer. That proves to be their undoing when they doze off not two minutes later, curled up together in the corner of the couch, where they remain until morning comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! One week's worth of prompts. Thanks to the folks who set this week up, it was really great. 
> 
> If you wanna see other stuff I do, you can find me at kerfufflewatch.tumblr.com for all Overwatch stuff, or on Twitter @NonsenseCommon for everything else. :D


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